Other than Jersey barriers and flashing lights on top of orange barrels, there have been a couple of other irregular sights on Route 132 these last few months. One is out in front of a tax preparation shop, where a person bedecked in an aqua Statue of Liberty suit beckons those who haven't got Turbo-Tax or an H.& R. Block account to come in and "get right" before the looming April 15 IRS deadline.

After you get your chuckle from Ms. Liberty hawking tax prep, a more sobering sight is frequently just 50 yards past her at the intersection of Independence Drive and Route 132.

There, for the last five or six months, a man has stood in the rain, snow and cold day after day holding a sign saying, "I'm broke. Will work for food."

I'm sure the man has raised the eyebrows of many driving by. I have even seen some people pull up and hand him bags of fast food, and others offer greenbacks.

Who is he? Where is he from? What has happened to him – and to us – that puts him on the street begging for money? These were questions that pulled at me every time I passed him. I finally had to stop and ask him to tell me his story.

Let's call him Joe. That's not his real name, but it will do. Looking at Joe, you see a person who is truly living on the edge. His face has a scrape, as well as a few days’ beard growth. The clothes on his back, of which there are multiple layers, are for the most part clean. At his feet sits a huge duffle bag bloated with his worldly possessions. As with most homeless, what you can't carry with you at all times quickly becomes lost.

"Hello, my name is John," I said to this stranger. "I work for a local newspaper and I've been wondering if I could ask you what your story is."

Joe looked down at the ground. He slowly looked back at me and made eye contact, but he kept his head bent almost in the submissive manner of a puppy when it has been caught doing something wrong.

"I, I don't think so. I'm trying to keep a low profile," he stammered. His words carried the tone of both fear and humility.

I told him not to worry. I just wanted to ask him a couple of questions as I stood there listening, not writing anything down.

I asked Joe where he was from and he told me Florida. What brought you to Cape Cod?

"I had been here once when I was a kid," Joe said. "I'm a (house) painter, I thought I could find some work here. But I don't have a driver's license, so it's difficult for me to get a job."

He went on to say he got stuck here, and the weather here wasn't as harsh as it was in Boston, where he "knew" there was lots of work for those who don't drive.

I asked him if he had a record. His wincing reply: "A little one." And we left it at that.

I asked him where he lived. He said he stayed at the Noah shelter sometimes, but that he didn't feel comfortable because it was too crowded. He said he stayed for a little while in a motel just up the street, but couldn't afford that. Other than that, he stayed outdoors.

I asked him if he made much money panhandling. "Enough to eat a little, and to wash my clothes every couple weeks," he replied.

At Christmas time, I would see drivers occasionally pulling up to him and handing him folding money. It was the thing people like to do at that time of the year. A person ringing a bell next to a pot always makes you fish in your pocket for some change at least.

As Yule-time drifted into January and February, fewer cars stopped to offer charity. I noticed that on many days there were several bags of fast food at his feet. Obviously people felt a Big Mac and fries was charity enough.

Now that it is April Joe is just another roadside attraction. Some look at him wondering what his story is, like me, but others purposely keep their eyes on the road, not wanting to look him in the face.

In 55 years, I have never witnessed a beggar on our streets. Sure, I have been asked for change from a street person from time to time – but never a man who persisted to show the world his plight day in and day out for five months, asking for help to survive.

I know the battle of emotions waged within us when we see someone like Joe. We think he's that way because he's mentally ill, or on drugs or booze, or all of the above.

No doubt Joe has his problems, probably even some demons, but by taking the time to talk to him, I know now that he's just another person trying to get by the best he can under the circumstances he's in.

Maybe Joe is the canary, a bellwether to the tipping point of our ever-tenuous economy. Maybe in a year or two, there might be many more Joes on Route 132.

All I know is it's very much a dichotomy to see Joe standing a few feet away from Lady Liberty. What must both of them think when they look each other in the eye?